“Hypothetically… that could present quite a problem when it comes to the line of succession, could it not, Secretary?”
“Mmm.” Gerald Simms blinks his beady eyes. “At times like this, we are unfortunately reminded why the royal family practiced theheir-and-a-sparepolicy for so many generations.” He shakes his head and the extra flesh beneath his chin wags. “If the Duke cannot produce an heir, for the first time in history, Germania may find itself without any viable contenders for the throne.”
I glance away from the screens, jaw clenched tight. I can’t listen anymore.
“Un-fucking-believable.” Owen scoffs. His handsome features are twisted into a scowl. “The crown’s not even cold and they’re putting contingencies into place. Vultures, the lot of them.”
My brows lift so high, they nearly disappear into my hairline. “Says the boy who spent his spring semester marching in anti-monarchy protests. I wasn’t aware you gave a shit about who wears the crown.”
His eyes flicker to mine and hold for a long moment. There’s something indecipherable in their depths. Something that makes my heart flutter uncomfortably inside my chest as he leans a fraction closer, his voice dropping to a harsh, angry whisper.
“I give a shit about what might happen if that crown changes hands to the king’s younger brother, Duke of HighAssholery. For fuck’s sake, I give a shit about what that might—” His teeth sink into his bottom lip. He doesn’t say the rest, but it’s written all over his face.
Of what that might mean foryou, Emilia.
I glance away sharply, wishing I could block out the sudden fear coursing through my veins. Wishing I could alter the strands of my DNA as easily as I do the strands of hair on my head. Wishing a lot of useless things.
The nasal voice of the Press Secretary rings in my head like a death knell.
If the Duke cannot produce an heir… for the first time in history, Germania may find itself without any viable contenders for the throne…
What would happen if they knew the truth?
That Linusdidproduce an heir.
He just didn’t want her.
“I’m sorry, Ems.” Owen’s voice jerks me back to reality. When our eyes meet, he swallows roughly, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I didn’t mean to snap at you.”
With a weak half-smile, I bump my shoulder into his to let him know I’m not upset. It would take far more than a few terse words for me to actually be mad at Owen. We’ve been friends since we were assigned adjacent cubbies back in nursery school. We grew up on the same street — which makes him, quite literally, the boy next door. It’s hard to imagine him doing anything that could ever break that bond. He’s the one constant in my life, no matter what else changes.
The talking heads on the television chat for another few moments, trading detestable words likelineageandline of succession, but I tune them out, trapped deep within my own thoughts. My eyes flit absently over the graphics that flash onscreen — a royal family tree, King Leopold and Queen Abigail already crossed out with resolute black lines. Their small portraits seem to lock eyes with me from the screen, ghostly and grave.
In another life, they would’ve been relatives.
My aunt and uncle.
Now, they’re a memory.
Feeling numb, I stare at the blank branch on the Lancaster family tree below Linus — the branch where my name should reside — and swallow down the bitterness that rises like bile in the back of my throat. The news anchor zooms in on his face, on the wordsDUKE OF HIGHTOWERscrawled beneath his visage. As my eyes move over his weathered features, I can’t help flinching at the striking similarity to my own.
Same dark, thick hair.
Same endless green stare.
Same stubborn set to his full-lipped mouth.
“Who is that?” One of the crying girls in the crowd whispers to her friend, peering at the television through glossy red eyes.
“Haven’t you been listening? It’s the king’s younger brother, Linus. The Duke of Hightower,” her friend whispers back. “If the prince dies… he’ll rule.”
“Isn’t he, like, seventy?” her friend asks.
“Seventy three, last month,” I murmur without thinking.
Both of them glance at me a bit strangely. I look away before they can question why I’d know such an obscure fact. The onscreen authority is still prattling on, saying things I don’t want to hear.
“We will have an update on Crown Prince Henry’s condition within the next few moments…”